Gone to Ground (13 page)

Since the Closet Killings began, opinion on the effectiveness of the town's police has also split down the middle, although not along racial lines. Some Amaryllis citizens will tell you their law enforcement is doing all it can to solve a string of murders with little to no evidence. Others will point to the chief's ego as the main stumbling block to finding a suspect. Their view is based on one indisputable fact: the chief has refused to ask for outside help from the Mississippi State Police, who have more equipment, manpower, and training.

Here, too, the historical tenacity and separateness of Amaryllis plays a part. In the past the town's citizens wouldn't have wanted the rest of the world "barging in and telling us what to do," as one business owner put it. Chief Cotter, along with his close friend Austin Bradmeyer, owner of Bradmeyer Plastics and mayor for fifteen years, have enjoyed free rein to run the town as they see fit. But the desire for separation has begun to slip. Talk to people on Main Street today, and you're likely to hear folks question why national media hasn't paid more attention to the serial killings in their tiny town. "You can turn on a cable news channel and watch 'em run video of some fight on a school bus," said Curtis Paltrow, owner of the town's only gas station. "But they're not interested in
five people
dead?"

As for Chief Cotter's investigation, talk to anyone in law enforcement, and in their honest moments they'll admit egos abound in the field. Each jurisdiction has their own way of doing things. One doesn't want the other "butting in." Chief Cotter points to his own years of investigative experience and the paucity of evidence in the Closet Killings, and says, "What do you expect the State Police to do that we haven't done? We've collected every piece of evidence there is—and that hasn't been much. We've canvassed every street numerous times. We have the files; we know the details. They don't. Plus, the State Police don't know our people, our town. They
aren't
equipped to handle this case as well as we are."

And some whisper, "They couldn't handle it any worse."

The Scotts' phone rang as I stood on my stool to
dust the top a their bookcase in the front room. Two more minutes, and I'd be done with another work week, thank the good Lord. A tangy smell cut the air. Laverlle Scott did love her Lemon Pledge.

It would be another half hour before Laverlle got home from her job at the bank. And Tony Scott would be busy for hours at his work in Bay Springs. The Scotts was one a my three black families in town. Ever week I let myself into their house with my own key. My check always waited for me in the big bowl on the counter, on top a the bananas.

The phone rang a second and third time before the answer machine come on. I heard Tony's voice greet the caller, then a long beep.

"Oh, Laverlle, I forgot you ain't home yet." The wispy voice of Laverlle's mother, Trixie, come from the machine. "I wondered if you heard bout Stevie Ruckland bein arrested for Erika's murder."

I dropped my dust rag.

"This time I hear the
po
lice say they got some good evidence. They'll probly end up chargin him with all the murders."

My tired feet hopped me off the stool and into the kitchen.

"And tonight they's—"

I snatched up the phone. "Trixie? This is Cherrie Mae. What you sayin?"

"Cherrie Mae? Oh, you cleanin house there?"

I'd only cleaned the Scotts' house at this same time for ten years now. I pushed down my impatience. "Stevie's been
arrested
?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Don't know entirely. They took somethin from his house. Tonight they's a town meetin. Chief Cotter set it. Rumors are goin everwhere, and the station phone been ringin off the hook. He figured might as well tell everbody at once what happened. People so scared. They want somethin done."

This was awful. The
po
lice jumped the gun on me. "What time's the meetin?"

"Seven o'clock. At the elementary school."

Seven. My achy body would fuss me up and down for draggin it out on a Friday night. But that's just what I was gon do. "What else you know, Trixie?"

"Oh, I heard all kinda things. One person say they found his fingerprints inside Erika's house. Another tol me they had shoe prints. Somebody else say they had his hair, too, stuck in Erika's fingers. I don't know what's right from rumor."

Hair? The Jackson lab couldn't a run DNA tests for hair yet—that took time. Even I knew that much.

I rubbed my forehead. "I'll be at the meetin. You?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world. I cain't wait to clap for the chief findin this awful killer."

"You don't know he's guilty yet."

"If they arrested him, I do. They wouldn't arrest him without good reason."

My mind flashed the picture a Erika's ring in Mayor B's file. "You don't know that either, Trixie. They's so much pressure on those men to make an arrest."

"That just got em workin harder. Now it done paid off."

"That just got em too anxious to 'solve' the case—right or wrong. Like Samuel Butler said, 'Justice, while she winks at crimes, stumbles on innocence sometimes.'"

She made a disgusted sound. "Whose side you on, Cherrie Mae?"

"I hope you right, Trixie. I really do. But let's wait and see what the
po
lice say. Worst thing we all could do is relax when that killer's still out there."

"Well, that's true." She sounded like a balloon with the air let out.

"I'll write Laverlle a note and tell her your message, since I cut it off."

"All right then. See you in a few hours."

I put the phone in its cradle and leaned against the counter.
Why
did this have to happen today? As if my shoulders didn't have enough to bear, savin the town. Now I had to save an innocent man from death row too. Because it would take a mighty lot a evidence to convince me Stevie Ruckland was the Closet Killer. Poor man hardly had enough sense to come in out the rain. Mayor B done gave him a janitorial job when no one else would hire him. Couldn't prove it, but I bet sister Deena had been behind that. I could picture her cuttin Eva B's hair and talkin how Stevie needed a job—

A new thought hit me. I sank into a kitchen chair. What if Mayor B made Stevie do some dirty work to throw the
po
lice off track?

Without that job at Bradmeyer Plastics Stevie couldn't keep his trailer. I knew that boy was proud a livin on his own. What if Mayor B said he'd fire Stevie unless he went to Erika's house? Once inside Stevie'd surely leave his fingerprints. Mayor B could a come along later, wearin gloves, and killed Erika.

But how could the mayor trust Stevie to keep quiet bout bein told to go over there, specially with the
po
lice leanin on him? And why would Erika open her door to Stevie Ruckland in the first place? As for the mayor sendin him over there
after
Erika was already dead—well, that was just too crazy to imagine. Stevie'd surely come unglued at a sight like that.

I sighed and tipped my face to heaven. "Ben, you see Jesus round up there, tell Him I could use His help."

My joints hurt. I pushed to my feet while I still could and went back to the front room to finish my work. Before packin up my step stool and supplies, I wrote Laverlle the note.

At home on a Friday night I usually eat while watchin the news, then settle in to read a few hours. Not tonight. From the minute I hit my door I fretted and stewed, barely able to choke down some leftover barbecue chicken and green beans. Puttin my throbbin feet up in my chair didn't help neither. I tried to close my eyes and rest while I could. But my mind kept cookin up pictures a Stevie in jail, scared to death. While I sat here, knowin a key piece a information that I couldn't tell nobody bout yet cause I had no proof.

How in the world would I sleep tonight in my own bed while that boy tossed on a hard, cold cot?

Half a me wanted to stand up in that town meetin and point my finger at the mayor. The other half reminded me how dumb that would be. Sure's you livin that evidence would disappear from Mayor B's desk before the
po
lice ever got there.
If
they believed me enough to look in the first place.

Dear Lord, what am I gon do?

At ten minutes to seven I got my miserable self up and into my car to drive to the elementary school.

I parked at the school, my stomach all shaky. I
shouldn't even be here. After my running around in the afternoon, I should be putting my feet up. And what would Michael do when he heard I'd gone?

But I couldn't stay away.

My brain hadn't stopped whirling since Mercy's call. If only I'd waited to mail that swab. I'd taken a huge risk for nothing. This had to mean Mike wasn't guilty. Right?

If only I could believe that.

Truth was, Stevie Ruckland's arrest could only mean they got the wrong man. "Evidence" on him was nothing new. Last time that surfaced nothing came of it. Meanwhile, how could I explain how Mike had acted since Erika was killed? If the police knew what I knew, would
they
explain it away?

When Chief Cotter got the swab in the mail, what would he do with it?

Please let the evidence on Stevie be real this time.

The atmosphere in the elementary gym was nothing like the usual happy anticipation before a school play. The air smelled of dust and sweat and fearful hope. A strained, grim quiet hung over the crowd. Metal folding chairs had been set up in every available spot. Most were already taken. Townsfolk perched down the long rows, some exchanging nervous whispers. Others sat rock still, staring at the empty stage as if a treaty to end World War III was about to be signed. The looks on their faces punched me in the gut. They
wanted
this to be right. They wanted to feel safe. To have their town back after three nightmarish years.

Now that the Stevie Ruckland train was rolling down the track, it would take a mighty big switch to stop it.

My hands were hot. What if the make-up on my neck sweated off? I felt like a giant sign hung on me—
Ask Tully Phillips what she knows.
I looked around for Mercy but didn't see her. My parents had to be here, but the last thing I wanted was to sit next to my mother. She'd take one look at my face and know something was wrong.

I waddled up the side of the gym, looking for a place to sit. Up front stood Officers Orin Wade and Ted Arnoldson, pointing out empty seats to people. Orin Wade caught my eye. I cringed. On a normal day Officer Wade intimidated me. He was short but muscular, and his eyes could bore right through a person. He waved at me. My heart skidded. I looked away, pretending not to notice. From the corner of my eye I saw see him head toward me.

They knew, didn't they? Already. Somehow. They were going to pull me up on that stage, force me to talk—

"Tully."

I turned, my throat dry as burnt toast.

"Follow me. There's a seat up front."

No.

I didn't want to sit up front, under Chief Cotter's eye. I wanted to sit in the very middle seat of the very middle row, where I could blend in.

"Come on, Tully." Officer Wade gestured with his head. "You need to get off your feet."

Like a prisoner, I followed, feeling the eyes of every person in the gym on my back.

The policeman led me to the
first
row and pointed. There in the center was one empty chair. Next to it sat Deena Ruckland, arms folded, glaring at the stage.

My heart clutched. "I couldn't. She's probably saving it—"

"No, she's not. Just no one wants to sit by her." The last sentence was muttered half under his breath.

Poor Deena. What it must be like for her, caught between a family member and the town.

I
could be in her shoes. The thought terrified me.

"Go on now, sit down." Officer Wade nudged my arm. "We need to get started."

Was God punishing me by saving me that seat? I cast one last desperate glance around—and saw too many people staring at me.